


Twilight of the Dawn

by gigi2690



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:43:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigi2690/pseuds/gigi2690
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The past is the beginning of the beginning and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn." Helena’s words are starting to slur slightly but the humour in her tone rings clear, "Is it terribly vain of me, to quote myself in the end?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight of the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not copy or duplicate on other sites or mediums without my consent.

The shelves seem to extend into eternity. She yearns to run until she finds the end, but something grounds her. Searching out the limits of this marvelous place, she tips her head back but cannot see the top as it blurs into dazzling light. Leaning her head too far back, she stumbles into a pair of warm arms,

“Mommy has never allowed me come to the Warehouse before.” Her enthusiasm bleeds into her tone as she spins around. Her dress flutters, but her shoes are silent as she moves from heel to toe and back again. The arms around her loosen but remain; the glittering of Myka’s green eyes somehow more brilliant than the artifacts around them.

She lingers in the comforting hold until she hears a soft voice echoing from further down the aisle, “Endless wonder is accompanied by countless dangers,” She breaks free, grabbing hold of one hand and pulling her companion along. Finally, as she makes her way around a large machine with two seats attached, she finds the source of the voice. “It seemed far safer to fill your mind with what little of that wonder I could carry home to you.”

Though the voice, however roughened, could belong to no other, it takes her a moment to register that it is her mother slumped against the metal pillar connecting two shelves. Her vest is unbuttoned, cuffs undone and sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Her hair is down and mussed, something she’d normally only see on those rare mornings when she’d wake before the sun, crawl into her mother’s bed and make herself at home in her arms. She’d run her hands through shining black that could make the night sky envious, and ask when hers would be so soft.

Her mother would hold her close, trace a finger across her face, down her cheeks, and tap her lightly on the tip of her nose, telling her that every inch of her was soft and perfect. So soft, in fact, that she made the perfect pillow. She’d pull her close, and they’d doze far later than proper, indeed until Sophie or Uncle Charles came knocking on the door.

“If I had only known, I would have taken you with me every day.” She looks so tired, weighed down, like every breath is a labor. Christina’s eyes dart around, only beginning to truly understand where she is.

“These are your inventions,” her voice is hushed out of habit, as her mommy’s work was always a secret. And yet here they are. All of the sketches she’d seen scattered across the big oak desk, her mommy’s dreams, jotted down by the light of the moon and oil lanterns now made manifest. Christina’s smile cannot be contained as she moves from shelf to shelf, jumping occasionally when one is placed too high, determined to see them all. “They are wondrous!”

Helena’s smile is small, easily mistaken for a shadow or a trick of light as her eyes take in what they can from her place on the floor. And when she sighs, it comes out shallow and worn, tearing the air with an aching finality, “It seemed right, to be here today. My home; my truth.”

Helena’s gaze stills where Myka stands a few feet away, “Oh Myka, I wish-I wish I hadn’t run, from this place, from you. I suppose I wish a great many things.” she drags her fingers through her hair, catching tangles instead of sliding through the silk. Her eyes fall to the hand fisted in her lap, hidden from Myka by the knees drawn tight to her chest.

“Myka. Hebrew in origin, ‘who resembles God.’ No wonder you always thought you weren’t good enough. What intolerably high expectations to put on one’s child. And everyone knew it. Peter, Arthur, Steven, dear Claudia, those damned regents, your mother, and yes, your father, too.” The last bit comes out a little bitter, the influence of absent-but-demanding fathers having been one of the first things Helena and Myka had recognized in one another during that first brief tenure together at the Warehouse.

Myka draws closer, almost warily. It’s abrupt when it happens– she collapses silently to her knees a few scant inches away, folding inwards like an old hand fan.

Helena pauses and draws a breath that’s notably shakier than the ones before, “Especially mine. You surpassed every dream,” her voice is tinged with something bordering on awe now, her smile wistful, “birthing new ones that took residence in my every thought. Until everything was coloured by you. It was beautiful,” she swallows with difficulty, as her fingers come to grip the locket around her neck, “it was terrifying.”

Myka’s fingers reach out, seeking that subtle connection she’d grown to crave so quickly. That had been ripped away just as swiftly. “Such a wretchedly ordinary end for one so special,” Myka’s hand falls short, sinking to palm uselessly at the Warehouse floor. Dark eyes shine like polished obsidian, welling up even as her cheeks stay dry, “but then, that seems to be the fate of the ones I love.” Her legs unfurl, and the hand fisted in her lap falls limp to the floor. A small cylinder falls from her grasp and rolls across the floor.

Myka startles as a small finger reaches up to trace her lower lashes, letting a lone tear spill onto her fingertip. Christina is at her side, all three at the same level. Her fascination has ebbed as she realizes it isn’t wonder or starlight that’s putting the shine in their eyes, “Why am I here now?”

Brown curls dance about her head as she shakes it, her smile is tender if not slightly amused, “Your mother always said you were too clever for your own good.” It’s not an answer, and Christina pushes aside the compliment to tell her so. This time Myka laughs, it rumbles through her lungs and seems to echo before it even leaves her throat. She feels a little lighter, a bit of colour returning to her cheeks, “You’re here because this is a very important day.” The smile is less genuine now, not false but rather too heavy to make its way to her eyes.

 _“The past is the beginning of the beginning and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn.”_ Helena’s words are starting to slur slightly but the humour in her tone rings clear, “Is it terribly vain of me, to quote myself in the end?”

A small frown works its way across Christina’s lips, and Myka wishes to brush it away, wishes this could be easier, that she could make it easier. But as that tight pang of inadequacy begins to blossom, Helena’s words echo through her mind, and for once, she finds she’s able to just, let it go. She cradles one small hand in both of her own as Christina asks the question Myka has been waiting for, “She’s going to see us soon isn’t she?” Her chin quivers slightly before she steadies it, ever her mother’s daughter, “Mommy’s dying.”

Myka’s eyes move to the empty bottle of painkillers lying on the Warehouse floor. It is slightly dented from Helena’s clenched grasp, but Myka’s name is still clearly typed across its face.

When Myka’s eyes return to the girl, she notices the fear in those dark eyes. One of Myka’s hands rises to cup her cheek, “No, hush now. She’s going to fall asleep, and we’ll be right here with her. And when she wakes,” Myka taps her lightly on her nose, “we’ll be the first thing she sees.” Her lips quirk into a lopsided grin even though her cheeks are now wet; the smile grows as she receives a small one in return, “now that doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

Christina shakes her head best she can with her cheek still cradled in Myka’s palm, the smell of apples carrying in the air of Helena's last breath.


End file.
